


Murdering Mouth

by Snowgrouse



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Fightsex, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-24
Updated: 2003-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-27 01:50:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowgrouse/pseuds/Snowgrouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There you go again, expert matador, Blake the bull and the flight deck the ring, your every word cold and sharp and just this short of murdering, his anger warming some cold place inside you.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Murdering Mouth

**Author's Note:**

> A very old B7 fic of mine, from around 2003. Thanks to betas too numerous to mention, and apologies for the formatting. The original story was more prose poetry than anything else, so I left it the way it was in the original.

There you go again, expert matador, Blake the bull and  
the flight deck the ring, your every word cold and  
sharp and just this short of murdering, his anger warming  
some cold place inside you. The angrier he gets, the  
more that something inside you grows, expands,  
thunderclouds rolling in the pit of your stomach at  
his even more thunderous voice. At that precise moment,  
you almost remember what it was like to love someone.  
Almost.

But hate; hate is even better. Hate never leaves you  
alone, cold and bleeding to death on a dark alleyway,  
no, hate burns and fills and makes you complete. The  
air between you ripples with sweet poison, your little  
needles slipping so easily under his skin, *in*, and  
this is the safest place, right here, because you  
know he will *let* you.

With a triumphant gesture, you let the last words  
spill out, with the relish of a cat playing with a  
prey long dead. Full of grace and fire in the belly,  
smiling, you turn to walk out, and the doorway is  
wide and bright.

The hair on your neck rises even before your brain  
registers the sound--the flintlock-click of his teeth  
snapping. Next, a burst of pain on the side of your  
face, and wet iron floods your mouth. The table  
clatters to the floor with an ugly sound as he pushes  
you to the sofa, pinning you down with his weight.  
His hands are around your neck, strangling, tilting  
your head back. There's blood in your mouth but you  
can't cough, can't breathe, can't prise his fingers  
off your windpipe, cursing yourself because you  
didn't want to go this far, didn't want it to end  
like this.

Stupid, how stupid you have been, but even that hardly  
matters now, as all is said and done, the last word  
belonging only to the dizzying darkness engulfing you,  
blinding you, hate bringing shivering cold and emptiness  
after all. It's familiar, dying, and it's too late for  
everything now, so you let go, you stop fighting, you  
slip free.

/I hope you're happy now./

And there, Blake's kiss, a fist through a sheet of glass,  
something shattering, something sparkling bright,  
cascading--then, silence.

He looks surprised. For some reason, you are not.

/There is sense in this, Blake, more sense than in  
anything else you've done so far.../

A little drunk, a little frightened (no, I'm not), you  
sway in his pull, careless of something like the sound  
of cloth tearing, the edges of your hearing and sight  
pushed far, further apart by the tide that is him, the  
centre that is him, where everything coalesces again.  
Blake is skin demanding to be touched, tasted, his  
thunder now lower and articulating clearly in your ear  
how you've gone too far this time, how you need to be  
paid back, how your throat is going to be so raw from  
screaming and fucking that you won't be able to even  
*whisper* another insult; and yes, oh yes, Avon, you  
like the idea, don't you, already so eager...

His rich chuckle heavy with danger, he pulls your  
head up by the hair, lifts your face from the crook  
of his neck where you've been feasting, and pulls you  
into another kiss. He rubs his hand, palm wide,  
across the growing ache of your cock and balls,  
scrunching the soft grey fabric of your trousers,  
warming it with his fingers, pulling it tight--oh,  
knowing, *knowing* how perfectly the movement draws  
your foreskin back just so, making you moan into his  
mouth. This sound, and others, he swallows hungrily,  
tongue weaving traps of saliva and blood to draw you  
in.

It's strange, this resurrection: it feels completely  
natural to hold and be held like this, to part your  
thighs further, to make space for his blessing hand.  
He probably thinks it's a punishment, but his rough  
squeeze and your rougher breath--everything is  
pleasure, there's no pain, no pain at all. You wish  
your mouth would bleed more, wish you could suck his  
tongue deeper in, wish he wouldn't unbutton your  
undershirt so slowly.

Yes, Blake--and was that really you who cried out,  
"more"?

Blake lets go to sit beside you, and rests his head on  
the back of the sofa, smiling. When he places your hands  
where he wants them, following him is really not that  
difficult. It's simple, it's easy: pulling the laces  
open, a tug here, an unfolding of cloth there, warmth  
and strength uncoiling in your hands, one more hollow  
filled.

His cock responds beautifully to your touch, stretching  
and growing, wine-red silk and steel. You lean over him,  
nuzzling closer, your head swimming with the musk, rubbing  
your face luxuriously against the length, murmuring your  
pleasure. And if you part your lips and place them *just  
there*, just at the root, you can feel the thrum of his  
pulse, a wild leaping rhythm almost as quick as yours.

You trace the vein with the tip of your tongue, upwards  
and around his cock, licking a gleaming trail across the  
ridge, feeling him twitch underneath, the head blindly  
seeking your mouth. You lap at the spot just beneath  
the crown, wondering if he's as sensitive there as you  
are. Oh yes, he *is*. A surprised groan, a tremble  
of his thighs, his cocktip weeping salty pearls, these  
are your rewards; these, you drink in.

His hands cup the back of your neck, his voice now hoarse,  
desire flowing thick over the current of anger. Deep and  
melodic, his words are almost sing-song, whimsical if you  
didn't know better.

"On your knees."

He stands up, pushing you down by the shoulders. When  
you resist, he grips you tighter, wrestling you down to  
the floor so he's lying on top of you. He pins your wrists  
down over your head, chuckling and shaking his head with  
amusement, his other hand going down to unfasten your  
trousers. His smile is triumphant when he discovers your  
hardness there--oh, how he revels in it. Gripping your cock  
firmly in his hand, he makes it so perfect that you have  
to tear your eyes away, that you have to twist your face  
aside, clench your teeth to trap the moan wanting to break  
free.

He presses close, his breath caressing the shell of  
your ear, telling you how he loves it when you fight,  
how wonderful it is when your mouth resists even when  
your body does the opposite, how he's always wanted  
to do this to you, always, and how now he finally  
will.

He gives a little pat on your cock and pulls away. He  
goes back to the sofa, sitting down and spreading  
his legs. He observes you with such heat in his gaze,  
pulling his cock and balls completely free from their  
confinement, presenting their full beauty to you.

He licks his lips and starts to touch himself, cupping  
and rolling his balls in his hand, while stroking his  
foreskin back and forth with the other, gathering  
sweet moisture on the head. His eyes roam over your  
half-naked body, pleased with their handiwork: your  
torn tunic, your trousers pulled down to your knees,  
your cock flushed and tapping at your belly, all  
thanks to him, all *for* him.

He curls his finger in a come-hither gesture, eyes  
glowing with a fire that burns the fine threads of  
your control to ashes, something dark unfurling  
between you. It's the darkness you've feared from the  
moment you first met him, yawning madness and  
foolishness sucking you in, you unable to resist.  
If you stay close to him, it's safer than the cold  
darkness of space, or so you've always told yourself;  
better than a stony cell on a prison planet, better  
than dying in a back alley like a sick stray dog.

But only marginally.

Safety? Trust? Need? They're all twined into this  
thin line you're dancing on, struggling to choose  
between "with Blake" or "without Blake". From  
hate to safety, from danger to attraction, that line  
is forever crossed with words, touches, images...  
And now? Now you don't even have to push any more  
to make him need you in return, his draw is strong  
enough--here, the centre is here--Ariadne's thread  
of sweat and pre-come unravelling the maze of Blake,  
of Avon.

So you're on your knees, so, you bend your head,  
unused to this, yet so thrilled by this, what you  
always thought of as your pride now shouting only  
need, the need to be filled, to be merged. A humble  
supplicant, you kiss the tip of his cock, carefully  
gathering every drop on your tongue to be savoured  
like nectar, treasured like gold. You look up, into  
eyes that are wider, more tender than you thought,  
Blake *trusting* again--that damn foolish trust  
he's shown to everyone, even you.

Or is that pity in his eyes? Under your stare, he turns  
away, closes his eyes, locking himself away, locking  
away the warmth. The bastard. The damned bastard.  
You've come this far (yes, you've always followed him  
too far), you're on your fucking knees, and if he  
isn't going to respond to you *now*, he never will.  
You grab his cock tight, hard enough to cause pain,  
and start to wank him roughly, letting him feel your  
nails, letting him feel... *feel*, even if it is  
only pain that can draw him out of his cocoon.

His eyes fly open, he gasps in pain, and his hands  
come trembling over your shoulders, his mouth starting  
to form a denial. You can guess what he's about to  
say, that he's the one that's gone too far, that he's  
about to mumble an apology, about to turn away.

It's then when you place the fingers of your left  
hand on his mouth, hushing him, right hand stroking  
his cock with a gentler touch. Tip the scales, with  
just a breath, a hot breath over his cock...

"Watch me, Blake."

And oh, what a prize it is, hearing him moan as you  
suck him all the way in, slicking him with spit again  
and again until you have all of him in your mouth and  
throat, so hot, so alive, so *willing*.

Sucking him, you are being sucked into the maw of him,  
and he is sucked into yours--maybe you, too, are his  
darkness, maybe you are what he fears.

Now it's you doing the undressing, pulling down his  
trousers so you can spread his thighs, grip the long  
muscles for leverage as you bob your head up and down,  
never decreasing the hardness of your suction. His  
breath comes faster, little protests caught on each  
exhalation. With teeth and lips, you tug at the glans,  
tongue dipping into the slit to steal more bitter salt,  
wanting him to make that protest just a little louder...

"Avon!"

With trembling fingers he pulls your head up, his whole  
body shaking with the strain of holding back. It's  
strange--or, come to think of it, very Blake indeed--how  
he now looks unsure, almost apologetic. The very look  
you can't stand, so you stand up and lean over to kiss  
him.

"Shut up."

You break the kiss only to pull his shirt off, to kick  
your own trousers off. You reach past him and dig your  
hand under a cushion, seeking and finding Jenna's hand  
cream. She keeps hiding the tube--maybe she has  
noticed you using it. Smiling, you squeeze a generous  
portion onto your hand.

"Don't look so shocked, Blake. It is, after all,  
what you intended."

Ignoring Blake's glare, and half-hearted "no", you  
spread the cream over his cock, wank it into his skin,  
make him completely wet and shining, making it so  
good he'll lose the power of speech. He makes only  
inarticulate groans and moans, and you kiss those  
away as you straddle his thighs, rubbing your arse  
against the well-slicked cock.

With infinite care and infinite malice, you guide his  
cocktip to your arse, rocking slightly against it,  
feeling the tip dipping into you, enjoying the  
expectation, trying to banish the fear of that length  
and girth. You are not afraid, you tell yourself, it  
is you who is holds the reins here, you who guides  
Blake.

Then he digs his fingers into your hips, pulling you  
down hard, and it hurts, fuck, it *hurts*. If you  
hadn't prepared him so well, he would've torn you,  
but the pain is bad enough as it is. You cry out,  
your muscles lock in pain and fear, and you see him  
laughing, gaining the upper hand again. This time, that  
hand is a hand of gentleness. He strokes your sides,  
crooning soft nonsense, kisses your chest and licks  
at your collarbone, licks the tension away, his power  
the power of tenderness. You detest it--well, you  
*should*, but when his tongue invades your mouth again,  
when his arms wrap around you, when his hands caress  
your back with strength and demand, you can't *not*  
relax.

He begins a slow steady rocking, his tongue fucking  
your mouth as his cock fucks your arse, no movement  
hurried. His hands, covered with cream, grab your  
buttocks, parting them with painless ease, lubricating  
you more, making you sigh against his neck. His size  
is amazing, stretching, cleaving, ploughing a way so  
deep inside you that you have to cry out again,  
groan your pleasure, humiliated by your own whimpers,  
your begging for more.

More is what he gives you, lifting your hips and  
then lowering you ever deeper onto his cock,  
whispering of how he loves your arse, how he will  
enjoy filling you with come. The cadence of his  
voice brings heat to your belly, your balls growing  
tighter with every thrust, with every dirty word  
spoken. He whispers of how you were right, yes,  
that he would've fucked you whether you wanted it  
or not, but how this is much better, when you offer  
your tight little arse for him, when you sit on his  
cock willingly, oh, it's so much more precious.

He cradles your balls in his hand, such a strong  
hand, such a good hand to trust. His cock slides  
inside you faster, pounding up you, hammering your  
prostate so roughly, your cock painfully hard, come  
begging to flow out of you, arse needing to clutch  
his cock with the tightness only orgasm can  
provide. All you can hear is "Come for me, now",  
all you can feel is his cream-wet hand wanking your  
cock hard and tight, all you can see are his eyes,  
begging and commanding at the same time.

One more whisper does it, that of "Come for me,  
Kerr", and you know your name, you know your  
position, you shoot your come over his smooth,  
smooth chest. It goes on and on as he fucks you,  
still more tremors rock your body, still more come  
pours out of you, burning from you, flowing out  
and clinging onto his nipples.

And still, he fucks you. Your body shouldn't be able  
to take it, not this much, not when he pushes you  
down on the floor, spreads your legs and thrusts in  
again. Still lost in the ecstasy of coming, you twine  
your fingers in his curls, kissing him, clutching at  
him with arms and arse. You tell yourself it's  
everything but belonging, everything but trust and  
desire and the ugly L-word, yes, that is what you  
must believe, even when you can feel him starting  
to come undone.

Then all words flee your mind, there's nothing but  
you and him, nothing but your hungriness taking his  
cock in deep, taking all of him as he bucks and  
groans on top of you, filling you with endless streams  
of come and praise. Tender words trickle from the  
corners of his kissing mouth as his come trickles out  
of your arse; you shouldn't let his "beautiful" and  
"love" and "mine" steal in and stab you with their  
blades, but they do, leaving your spirit as exhausted  
as your body.

Then comes the buttoning up of grey leather and  
trousers, the turning away from what you've just  
done. He wants to hold you, but you swat him away  
like an irritating insect; he has come too near to your  
centre already. You throw vicious words and cool  
malice at him, just as before, hoping to sting him  
so hard he won't dare come close again.

His smile is wicked--well, perhaps he has learnt  
from the best--but you can't stop your body from  
shivering as his hands and voice caress you from  
chest to groin: "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For reassuring me."

"You're delusional, Blake."

"Perhaps."

Delusions, hah, you hate yourself for whimpering  
when he leans down to kiss you, tasting his own  
cock on your mouth, remembrance of your need. He  
rests his hands on your buttocks, fingers splayed  
wide, and rubs your groin against his, ownership  
in his every movement.

Then he is gone, his laughter still in the air, you  
left simmering and fuming. It's not anger at him,  
you find, but rather anger at yourself. Alone, you  
stretch on the couch, the difference between solitude  
and loneliness marked by the pleasant ache between  
your legs.

You hate the way you feel, you're not depressed  
enough and even--no, don't think it--*hoping*. Hoping  
and curious, now, for his offered trust and what it  
could give you, hoping for a few touches more, licking  
your lips and tasting Blake, tasting tomorrow.

***

End.


End file.
